Visits With Ella
by Catie Greensman
Summary: After Sherlock jumps off of Bart's, John decides he needs to see his therapist again. This story will cover those visits over the course of the first year Sherlock is gone. *Post-Reichenbach and some Johnlock*
1. July 1

_"In reality, we are eachother's heroes because  
we are the embodiment of a different set of givens and  
choices. We are all heroes, yet, as a result,  
none of us can be. We are, in the end, equals."~ Anonymous_

* * *

_"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."_

Ella looked satisfied with the confession, but John wanted nothing more than to scream. In that moment, he hated her. He hated the situation. He hated having to talk to anyone, and the fact that he had been the one to make an appointment didn't seem relevant. Ever since that day, he had been tip-toed around and showered in pity, but it was all such bullshit. John was a soldier and a doctor. He had seen men die almost constantly for years before he was shot, and he had seen countless crime scenes. Death was nothing new.

"Good, John, good," Ella smiled, leaning in. Maybe it was supposed to indicate for him to keep speaking, but there was nothing left to say. Sherlock was dead. He had been proven a fake. _Wrong_, a voice in John's head said, but he pushed it back. Sane people don't talk to themselves. Then again, most sane people don't have a therapist. He was fine though. He'd just made the appointment as a kind of experiment, to see if there was any stock in what Ella had been doing.

It had already been half a month since... what had happened. John was ok. Sure, he'd had more nightmares, but that was normal. Everything was just that- normal. He was still living in 221 B, although he was only paying the part of the rent his Army pension would allow. Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to give him some slack until he could get a job and hopefully be able to pay her back.

The flat hadn't changed much in the past few weeks, either. Mycroft had gotten whatever money Sherlock had been holding in the bank, but he hadn't touched what was still in 221 B. The coat and the scarf stayed in Sherlock's old room, where John no longer went. Everything that was just too... _him_ had been stashed there, out of sight. John knew it was there, but he didn't have to look at it constantly. Sherlock was still there. That was what was important.

"So, have any symptoms of PTSD resurfaced?" Ella asked in a strangely clinical tone. She usually tried to stay conversational. John knew because this had often bothered him. She was paid to be there and to asses his condition, and trying to be best friends was not part of that arrangement. He already knew there was something wrong with him; he wasn't stupid. He had made the appointment in the first place.

However, John had to nod. "Yeah, just nightmares and paranoia mostly."

"What do you think is the significance of that?"

"I could be wrong, but isn't that your job to figure out?"

"You are a doctor. You know this."

"Well, if you already know what's wrong with me why don't you just enlighten me! I don't think I can provide a fair second opinion when I'm the patient." John really did hate all of the dancing around the topic. Why did he have to say everything first? He knew Sherlock was dead. He knew Sherlock had been a fake. He knew that he may be starting to lose his bloody mind!

Ella sighed, "Alright then. I think you've lost your distraction. Losing Sherlock has brought back memories of losing other friends in Afghanistan, which you've only pushed back, not dealt with. Do you agree, Doctor?" Bullshit. It wasn't just losing the men who had become his brothers that had brought him to Ella in the first place. It was the bombs, the fear, the anger, the constant threats, the sense of failure, and the sense of boredom! She had never quite gotten that, though. He had tried to explain this to her before, but it was useless. John didn't know why he had come back, but he did need to talk. There was no one else he could just talk to without knowing that they would try to send him here anyways. It was like taking a short cut to avoid the crippling pity that would be hurled at him if he were to try getting a hold of Greg or Molly.

"Yeah," John eventually responded. "Yeah, I get it." They then fell into a long and thick silence. Ella observed John as he sat there, staring out the window, pretending he didn't notice that she was staring him down. John sat perfectly still and open, not letting his own body language betray him.

"Why are you here?" She finally asked, but John didn't move.

"You know why. I already told you."

"You never want to talk and act as if you were dragged in, but you weren't. So, John, what finally made you come back? What was the straw that broke the camel's back?" It was so simple, painfully so, but he had no response. _My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead._ Wasn't that enough?

John said nothing, resorting to staring out the window. "You need to open up, John. To me, to your friends, family, anyone you can talk to. Acting like you're alone in your grief won't help anyone, especially you. It will also begin to hurt those around you if you let it progress," She stated. It may have been true, but saying it was so easy. Doing it seemed impossible and counter intuitive. By opening up he may open a whole new can of memories that would land him back with Ella, talking about his feelings again. That was a lovely thought.

"I have nothing to open up about," John finally shrugged. "Nothing ever happens to me."

Ella sighed. "Before our next appointment I expect you to change that." As if that could ever happen.

* * *

**Thank you all for reading, even if the first chapter was a bit short. This is my first story for Sherlock, so any and all criticism is welcome. I will be posting once a week, and each chapter will take place on the 1st or 15th of each month. The full story will cover a full year, meaning 27 chapters. As it progresses, I will talk more about John's life at home, but I just needed a foundation chapter to start out with. Anyways, I hope everyone enjoyed!**

**~CG**


	2. July 15

_" 'No stars in the sky,' he thought, still bemused by  
his dream. 'They are on earth instead.' " ~ Les Miserables by Victor Hugo (Jean Valjean Speaking)_

* * *

As John approached Ella's office 15 days later, he mentally prepared himself. He had to try to cooperate. Nothing drastic would be asked of him, so he would act as instructed. Those were the only orders John gave himself. Since his last appointment, he hadn't done much. It wasn't like he had a job or anything, and Mrs. Hudson (God bless her) had kept at least some food in the fridge, simply adding the expense to his rent. This meant his pension was barely enough, but it would do. He didn't need much food, anyways. Since Sherlock had jumped, John had lost his appetite, but he wasn't starving himself or anything. He just didn't need to eat as much as he used to. Maybe he was starting to adopt some of Sherlock's old habits._ That's lovely_, he thought_, super healthy_.

"Hello, John," Ella grinned as John entered her office. He had long since stopped giving fake smiles to attempt to convince her that he was alright. It wasn't worth it anymore. "Did you do anything interesting this week?" It sounded casual, but John knew she really meant 'Have you done anything with your life other than let it waste away?' Because no, he really hadn't.

John shook his head. "Not really. Just been trying to get some sleep."

"Really? You haven't left your flat in over two weeks? Does that not seem a bit unhealthy to you, John?" She pressed. He had left the flat, though. Just to walk every now and then, chase off some of the more persistent press that still hung around, or just to stand outside, to not be trapped inside for another day.

"I went to the park a few days ago," John sighed, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. "I was just going to sit on one of the benches, read a book, what normal people would do. It wasn't long before I left, though. It was just distracting." John's hand dropped to his knee, yet his eyes remained downcast.

Ella pressed on, taking advantage of the rare lead. "In what way was it distracting?"

"There was just a lot of people, all walking in their groups, talking relentlessly, crowding up the walkways. Damn it, people have gotten a hell of a lot louder. Everywhere I go, people's conversations just intrude, and they're so tedious. "John shook his head in frustration, realizing how he had so easily strayed from the topic."It's just me, I know. What is it now, am I hyperaware? Social anxiety? Paranoia? Maybe a combination?"

"No, John," Ella replied, voice painfully close to monotonous. It was her calming tone that always seemed to anger John further. It was just a reminder that he needed to be treated like a child, in her eyes. "This is just resurfacing stress. Did these thoughts begin to become overwhelming?" Hell yes they had, but it was mild in comparison to other episodes of anxiety John had dealt with. It wasn't even worth mentioning, really.

He tapped at his knee, trying to maintain a stable outer appearance. "No. I'm fine, just frustrated is all. People have been tiptoeing around me for weeks, and it can just be hard to take at times. It's just easier on my own. I did leave, though, but only because I wasn't doing much. Just dealing with the atmosphere. A bit counterproductive, I thought."

Ella made a quick note, and John pretended not to notice, as the custom had become. "And where did you go?"

This was where John faltered, but he had to cooperate. He had to figure it out. "I wanted to visit Sherlock, so I went to his grave."

_John could see the spot in his mind as he sat on the bench in the park, gripping at his book much harder than necessary, trying not to scream at each passing son of a bitch. He hadn't been there alone, he couldn't trust himself, but he had to. Nearly falling with the speed at which he stood, John grabbed his cane and began to hobble towards the nearby cemetery, the one that held his best friend. Cemetery. What an awful word. It was too cold and reminded him of some bad horror film, but what else could he say? Why did he even care? It wasn't long before he was stumbling towards the back corner with the large tree, the one Mrs. Hudson thought would be so nice and that she said reminded her of some old book. Irrelevant._

_John momentarily forgot himself and tripped, only catching himself as he dropped to his knees. There was no need to stand, though. He was alone, and on his knees was closer to the one person he wanted to be there. Sherlock was physically there, but he was so out of place. It was all wrong. John ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the greying blonde strands. He should feel at peace in the still atmosphere, but he couldn't. It was like he was expected to figure out the puzzle, how Sherlock was actually still alive and solving cases, how he would someday just show up at Scotland Yard, but there was no mystery. Just a body. For a sick moment, John remembered Donovan saying that someday they would all be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes would be the one that put it there. He hadn't believed her but damn it she was right. She was always right. Except it was just John in that moment, and he could no longer find the strength to stand._

Ella looked so calm._ It's hateful, isn't it? No, God no_. "John, you need to be able to share your mourning experience with me. It is my job, you know. If you're embarrassed by having cried or become angry, I assure you that it is all completely natural and-"

"I didn't." Ella fell silent as John spoke. "You know how you asked what I had left unsaid? Well, I told myself I should tell Sherlock all of those things, but I couldn't. So I left. I went home, and I was asleep by 6:00 that night." By 7:00 he had woken up hyperventilating and sobbing, the image of Sherlock's mutilated face still fresh on the insides of his eyelids, but Ella already knew about the nightmares. He couldn't bring himself to go into detail.

"John, you need to find a way to let those unsaid things go. Writing has always seemed to help you, and you don't even have topost it. Just r=write out one thing ou should have told him, and you can print it to leave at the grave or you can just delete it. Either way, keeping your feelings bottled up will only allow them to explode out. Have you experienced that kind of loss of control before?" _Try every time I've screamed at Mrs. Hudson or have broken something after throwing it against the wall or taken a swing at someone with a camera_, John thought.

"Only just after I got back to London," He lied, disregarding what he had originally told himself about being cooperative. "Nothing recently. This is nothing like coming back from Afghanistan."

"In what ways?"

"Every way."

"John, elaborate."

He paused. The nightmares and panic attacks had started up again as well as the limp. He didn't have any friends anymore, that was for sure. Lestrade and Molly had tried to keep in contact, but that was shortly after the fall. He couldn't stand to talk to them. If he went much longer without a job, he would end up in a crap flat again with little more than his laptop and a gun. He didn't really need a computer anymore since he had given up on the blog and all that had been in the news for so long was SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS. SHERLOCK HOLMES IS AS MUCH A FREAK AS HE IS A LIAR. WHO IS THERE FOR THE PUBLIC TO TRUST? So much idiocy. That only left the gun. Not much of a life to look forward to.

Since Sherlock's death, Lestrade and Mycroft had collectively been able to prove that Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, innocent. Moriarty was real. However, no one would believe it. Kitty Riley and her army of press had done their damage and perpetuated it. John wasn't the naïve one. He was right. He had to be right. Sherlock would call him an imbecile for doubting his own mind, but everyone was always so stupid. So ignorant. At least they were to Sherlock. It was in the same way that any drawing would be insufficient in the eyes of an artist. He was just so much better. John knew he shouldn't idolize Sherlock, but he had always been a human playing God. He had just dragged John along in the wake, bringing him into the games and pantomime of the world, and damn it John still missed him. He still missed London's battlefield, the complexity of criminal masterminds' plans, Sherlock's insistence that the reality in which he lived was the only one in which he wouldn't go insane with boredom.

"John?" Ella's voice suddenly broke through the barrier of his own thoughts, ripping his mind back into reality. With his mind suddenly silenced, John noticed an unbearable silence that had sunk in around him. When had that happened? It was coming in from all around, broken not even by the ticking of a clock or the tap of afoot. It was still and unbroken, a perfect and still moment in time. It was terrifying. There was no longer a distraction, a place to get lost. He was back to where he had been- alone, scared mostly of his own mind but also of circumstance.

John was suddenly aware of his own posture in the bath of stillness. He was slumped, no longer holding his tight army stance. He had hunched over, hands clutching at the tops of his knees. It was no secret that Captain John H. Watson was gone, now. Instead, John was again the invalidated soldier, the PTSD sufferer, the veteran with the fake limp he never could shake off, and the man who was terrified of events that had become only memories. That was the worst part. How can one let go of a phobia when it is one's self? Of the place he had been left, of having to accept what was real, what was fake... Through detachment? That was more commonly known as going fucking insane.

"John, I need you to elaborate. In what way this different from returning from Afghanistan?" He now had to walk through the damn battlefield on a daily basis and he had to live within it. And no one else could see the war. Before his comrades had been with him, and even in London, Scotland Yard had been the side of the angels and Moriarty headed the side of the demons, but now the lines had blurred and dissipated. Even Sherlock, who had seen everything, couldn't see this. No one else could understand the terrorist of his memory.

When John did speak, it was in an oddly small vice. Almost that of a child. It wavered and cracked, but John was far beyond giving a shit. It wasn't like Ella didn't know he was a screwed up person, no longer even a man. It what was is this different? "It is so much worse." That was the moment in which John knew he had finally been broken. The war was no longer just inside of him.

* * *

**This was a bit late, but hopefully it was alright. And a bit longer. Let me know what you think; all criticism is very welcome.**

**EDIT: After rereading this, I felt that it needed to be altered and expanded on, so I did just that.**

**~CG**


	3. August 1

_"I've seen to much to ever be wide-eyed again."~ Captain Benjamin 'Hawkeye' Pierce (Portrayed by Alan Alda), 4077th M*A*S*H_

* * *

The expected smooth tone that was distinctly Mycroft was as stable as always. "John, you know what I want. I need access to Sherlock's remaining possessions. As his closest blood relative, I have every right to see whatever he left in the flat." This wasn't the first call K=John had received, nor the first car that had followed him around London. He could no longer afford a cab, so he had taken up walking. Perhaps just accepting the car would help him to get around, but John was too damn proud for that.

"Piss off." With that, John hung up. He didn't need to hear the excuses or the 'facts' from Mycroft. He wouldn't trust him to go anywhere near what he had left of Sherlock, especially after what he had done. It may be a bit of a stretch, but John still considered him to be a main cause of Sherlock's death. He had given away Sherlock's biography for what? Information that ended up pointless? Because Sherlock had been forced to kill himself over all of this. Evidently Mycroft, for once, didn't know what he had been doing.

When John walked into the Ella's office, he noticed that she appeared to have been ready for a while. He was probably late, even if he had left the flat with plenty of time to walk. The limp was getting worse, then. "Hello, John. How have you been since we last met?"

Normally, John would just shrug it off, say that he was as good as he had been and try to get the session moving along, but he had just been frustrated lately."Dreadful, actually. I've just about run out of money at this point, and Sherlock's brother has now decided that he needs to get his chubby hands all of Sherlock's possessions, which sure as hell isn't going to happen. I don't even know where this is all coming from. He and Sherlock were never what one could call close."

"They were brothers, John. Anyone can become sentimental in this difficult of a situation." Ella shrugged, as if it didn't matter, and maybe it didn't. It wasn't like John ever even looked at Sherlock's things anymore. He didn't need to be reminded that Sherlock wasn't there anymore, but Mycroft didn't deserve to look at them. He was the reason Sherlock was gone, after all.

John shook his head. "No, trust me. The Holmes brothers were- and are -infamous for their lack of attachment. Their emotional range is basic compared to that of a new born. Mycroft doesn't deserve anything if Sherlock's." He leaned back in the chair, confident in his standing, Ella still seemed unsure, but she didn't know he history of it all.

She seemed genuinely confused for once, not just like she was trying to get John to pour his heart out again, to sob at her feet. "Why do you think he doesn't deserve to see what his brother left behind?" Her confusion fueled John's rapidly growing frustration, making his grow increasingly impatient.

"He sold out his own damn brother!" John snapped, grabbing the armrests and leaning forward. "You know what I was doing? I was doing anything I could to keep Sherlock's head above the water, and Mycroft just ruined it all." John was the only friend Sherlock ever really had, and now that he was gone everyone wanted to be so involved. It was maddening! Everyone could just admit that they only cared that they may have been fooled, and this sickened John. People had begun to truly revolt him.

"How did Mycroft ruin your work to protect Sherlock? Can you relive the events up until Sherlock's suicide?"

John resisted the urge to finch in response to her words. He knew this was coming, and he was ready to finally vent to someone about how Mycroft had killed Sherlock. He had given Moriarty the tool and turned his back, playing innocence. "Sure. As you know, for months we had been dealing with Moriarty becoming far more powerful very quickly, and with this came an intense rise in press coverage of both of our lives, including the cases but also just us as people. Apparently, Kitty Riley approached Sherlock at the hearing and tried to get an interview out of him. He obviously refused, and she must have become angry. I guess that's when she started looking at the conspiracy theories, looking for the right time to start the turn of the press. That's where Moriarty comes in. He came in and gave a full account of how he was Richard Brook, an actor hired to play Moriarty. Hegot all the facts about Sherlock spot on, even stuff that no one would know. This whole scheme fit in perfectly with rumors that had started going around at the Yard, and when Sherlock was arrested for suspected abduction, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. The whole story fit because it was a lie wrapped up in a truth, and Mycroft provided the truth.

"You see, he had been interrogating Moriarty while he was still in custody, before the hearing, and Moriarty wouldn't talk. He would only open his mouth in exchange for information about Sherlock. By the end of it all, he could write a full fucking book on the man. That's why Kitty Riley was so convincing, and that was the ultimate breaking point. People swallowed it because of what Mycroft had given Moriarty." Half of what he had said had been from what Sherlock had told him what seemed like forever ago when the conspiracy theories had started going around. He had even started to think that John was starting to doubt him. _Never. _

The therapist nodded, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. She set her notes on her desk, focusing instead on simply listening to John's account of the events. "While we're on the topic of that day, can you try walking me through the exact events? I want to hear your account of what happened. Feel free to fill in what you now know was happening to Sherlock."

"No, just... Please no. You know what happened already, I've told you most of it!"

"I know, but you need to be able to go through this in your mind, organize your thoughts." John knew the whole story well, including everything that had come to light since then. He had gone through the full thing in Sherlock's and Moriarty's points of view as well as his own, and he had lived all of these in the form of nightmares that were sickeningly realistic. He couldn't put this in words, though. "You have to, John. You can just begin with that morning."

John sighed deeply and leaned forward to rest his own arms on his legs, hiding his face in his hands. He rubbed at his eyes before finally looking up to speak. "He had been thinking nonstop in the lab for hours, all night and through the morning actually. I got a text that, um, Mrs. Hudson had been shot, that she was dying. I didn't even question it. With Sherlock's enemies and Moriarty's rise and all, it seemed plausible. When I told Sherlock that we had to go to the hospital to see her he just said that he was busy thinking and that he couldn't leave. Damn it, I was such an idiot. He nearly killed a man who had only threatened her for God's sake! He should have been furious that she had been hurt so badly! How the hell had I missed it!" John dropped his face to his hands, pausing briefly. He probably resembled a child who had done something wrong and was being forced to admit it to a parent, but he didn't give a damn.

"But I did. I just started yelling at him. I called him a- a machine, and he said that he was alone, which was what protected him. As I left him I said that friends are what protect people. I guess I did a crap job of that, though, since I did leave him. Once I got back to the flat, I saw Mrs. Hudson alive and well, trying to make small talk with some repair man. That was when I knew something was wrong. I had fucked up, so I tried to get a cab back to St. Barts. Once I got near the hospital, Sherlock called me and said to not go in. He told me to look up to the, uh, to the roof where he was standing."

John had to stop. It was all too much, the vivid image of Sherlock standing up there, his image blurred by distance. The wind looked as if it could knock him off any second... No, no, no, he had to talk. Ella was staring at him, he knew, even though, his face still rested in his hands. She didn't try to urge him on. Instead she just sat there, waiting for him to recover himself, calm his breathing, push back his tears further. "I looked up," He finally let go, ignoring his now softer and more ragged voice. "And he said stay right where I was. Then Sherlock said he was a... fake. He was a fake, and it was all just a magic trick, his words. I didn't believ him, though, and I still don't. The first time we met, he knew everything about me, and I told him so. He said he looked it all up on the Internet, though, which was bull shit, it had to be. It has to be!" John had begun speaking at double his normal speed until he screamed out the last line, finally lifting his head to look at Ella. Before he continued, he forced himself to level his voice again.

"He said, the call was a note. His suicide note. Then Sherlock- He said, and I quote, 'Keep your eyes fixed on me.' He wanted me to watch, to see it all happen. It was surreal, the whole thing. I could hear him crying over the phone, and he never has that kind of emotion. He never shows that kind of weakness to anyone, but I could hear him giving up. Then he just- That was it."

She still sat perfectly still, legs still crossed and her head cradled in her hands, but John could tell that her mask had fallen. She no longer looked calm and at peace; she looked distressed, worried for John as well as tired. She wasn't tired of him, though, and he could tell. She reflected the same tired feeling he had been experiencing for weeks, one that was more of a resignation of keeping up with the world. Maybe it was just frustration, but John knew it felt more like being forced to give up. "What happened next, John. Please, just say it out loud."

"He said 'Goodbye, John' and hung up. And I had to watch him fall. I didn't register it all until some bastard on a bike ran into me, and then I remember laying on the ground,but the pain didn't matter. I still got up and ran to him, just like I always do, and I reached through the crowd to touch him, just to prove that it was a fake, a magic trick like he had said. Eventually I did get to feel for a pulse, but there was none. God, he was even still warm enough to be alive, but his damn skull was flattened onto the pavement!" John stopped suddenly when he realized that he had been shouting at Ella and had slammed his fists into the arm rests of his chair during the last few words. "Oh God, I am so sorry."

"No, you're fine," She sighed. Ella looked down briefly, and she looked like she was trying to compose herself. That never happened. She was always so calm, and yet the whole story had affected her. It was strange for John to see. "Thank you for telling me the story, and you have every right to feel angry about this."

"I know. Oh, God , I know, but its not like this is the first time I've relived it all. I've watched it all over and over again at night as part of the nightmares as well as during the day." John stopped to rub a hand against his face even though no tears had formed. He just felt weighed down, like he was covered in a layer of grime that would never leave him. "Ella, I need something to change. I can't keep living like this."

"I'm trying, John, I swear I am, but I'm no miracle worker."

"Yeah, I know," John muttered, looking back down to his clasped hands. "That's ok."

* * *

**In case you missed it, I did go back and edit the last chapter to fix some technical errors as well as change a lot of the basic content. Please**** reread that if you have not already. Also, I've decided to start opening each chapter with a quote, so I have added those to each of the prior chapters. As always, thank you for reading. **

**~CG**


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